A promise
by palomina
Summary: And Gwen looked at him, eyes ever so kind and soft, and she whispered: "I'm sorry, old friend." "What could you possibly be sorry for?", he asked. "For soon leaving you behind alone in this world." And Merlin smiled at her for her kindness, and then he wept, knowing he had nothing left in the world but her. "Promise me, Merlin,"she whispered, chest heaving."Promise me to remember."
1. Chapter 1

AUTHORS NOTE:

So, first of all:

SPOILER-WARNING:

Spoilers for Merlin up to and with season 5.

And second of all, as usual: English is not my first language, so please forgive whatever mistakes I may have made. Feel free to point them out to me!

More notes at the end.

Have fun!

He left Camelot as soon as Gwen died. She had lived a long, although by no means peaceful live. Peace was not for the kings and queens of this age, and especially not for Gwen, sweet, good-hearted Gwen, who had never wanted to be a queen, never wanted a Kingdom to rule but only to be at the side of the man she loved. Never the less she had been a good ruler. Just and fair and compassionate. And when she despaired at times over the things she had to do, the lifes that were lost under here care, she did so with nobody but Merlin for a witness.

He had stood at her side every minute of this endless fight, at every turning point, every war, every hour of political intrigues. She stayed strong because she could not bear to abandon what Arthur had loved more than everything, what he had fought for so hard. And neither could Merlin. Camelot was all they had left from the man they both had loved so much.

But Merlin knew, knew since the day Arthur had died that the Camelot he and Gwen were so fiercely trying to maintain was destined to fall apart without it's King.

It truly started when the last knights of the round table died.

Leon first, lost to a stray bandit arrow. Such a mundane way to die, for a man so good, so loyal and fierce. But death was seldom heroic, and even the best would go when he called for them.

Percival went years after, living long enough to marry, to become father to a beautiful daughter. To witness here die from a fever, not having lived more than 10 summers. Reckless and half mad with grieve he went to his death in the next battle. Merlin tried to see it as mercy. He was with his daughter now.

And then, decades later, when Gwen was lying in her bed, dying of old age and sickness, she took his hand, young and strong as on the day Arthur had died, in her own, wrinkled with age and labour. And she looked at him, eyes ever so kind and soft, and she whispered to him: "I'm sorry, old friend."

"What could you possibly be sorry for?", he asked.

"For soon leaving you behind alone in this world." And Merlin smiled at her for her kindness, and then he wept, knowing he had nothing left in the world but her.

"Promise me, Merlin," she whispered, chest heaving, "Promise me to remember. It is not going to be easy for you, but you must remember. Remember who we were when we were young. Remember our smiles and our pain. Why we did what we did. Remember your kindness and open heart. Arthurs bravery and the love he bore his people. Gwaines laughter. Lancelots noble heart. Leons will to serve. Elyans courage. Percivals softness. Remember them all, even Morgana, her compassion and will to protect and Mordred, and how desperately he tried to do right." She smiled, then and there, her breath growing weaker. "You have a kind heart, Merlin. Don't ever let anything change that."

He stayed at her side long after she had gone cold. All through the night until the morning came. Then he stood up, walked out of Camelot and never returned.

Soon after the death of her Queen Albion fell into civil war and ruin. And Merlin became driven, never staying long in one place. He preferred to stay away from people and only murmurs of ghost were what hinted to his existence.

For centuries he merely endured, not taking part in the moving of the world. He tried to keep the promise he gave Gwen, and once a day he would sit down, close his eyes, and remember the past, no matter how painful it was. But some hundred years after the fall of Camelot he began to realize that he could no longer remember certain faces. He did not know what Will had looked like anymore, could not picture his eyes, his hair, his face. Soon other faces started to blur too, and he no longer knew of Freya's appearance but that she had been beautiful and soft, fragile but brave.

He then began burning their faces in the air, in the ground, on the trees around him. Arthur, Gwen, Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan, Leon, Percival, Gaius… Morgana, Mordred.

Sometimes, he would talk to them. Recount their adventures to them like they used to do when they were sitting at the campfire. He would hear their laughter in his head and he could imagine them teasing each other, boasting with tales of courage and bravery. He'd even hear their voices, although he suspected their sounds had long since been altered by the void of time.

But some time, after the first machines arrived and the world became loud and noisy, he grew numb and tired of the past. He did not want this pain anymore, did not want the ghost of people long gone. So he broke his promise and tried to forget. He buried them deep, all the memories of their youth, of who he was. It was easier and live seemed simpler to bear.

But the blank spots on the maps started to fill and soon he realized that there was no place anymore to wander in the shadows, no empty deserts, or waste woods to hide in. He was forced to share his space with people, no longer being able to avoid them. Having only glanced bits of the world with its people and how it changed, he was surprised to find out how much was different. The world had grown hard and was now fast and full of steel, it's habitants possessed by thoughts of money and greed, and there was no honour in them anymore. They seemed like children to him, all of them, and so small, so insignificant compared to the vastness of time. Living and dying in a blink of an eye, struggling through a meaningless existence.

He built himself a cottage far off, only seeing those who had lost themselves in the woods. Sometimes, they would knock at his door, these lonely walkers, and he would point them in the direction of their homes, usually being inhabitants of one of the villages nearby.

One day, a young man arrived, half starved to death, no older than 16. He knocked and fainted at his doorstep and Merlin looked at him curiously. Even from afar he saw the illness that was shaking the young body and he knew he would not live through the night. Almost a mercy it seemed to him, for to die now or fifty years from now, what did it matter? Death would come for him eventually and judging by his look, live would not have been kind to him in the meantime.

But something stopped him from turning away, a toneless voice in his head, a faraway memory of soft eyes and kind hands. And in a thoughtless decision he fell back upon his magic to lift the boy onto his bed, to heal his wounds and nurture his body. Afterwards he sat at his side a long time, studying the boy for it had been long since he had been so close to other people. And he sat and thought and something stirred in him that he could not name.

The boy awoke the next day. Merlin brought him soup and blankets, but he did not speak and the boy did not dare to ask. Soon he slept again, as his body had not yet recovered from the strain. He had been there two days before he uttered his first words. They were: "Thank you."

Merlin looked at him curiously.

"What for?" he asked eventually. The boy looked startled.

"For saving my life."

Merlin was silent for a long time.

"If I'd let you die, you would not have felt a thing. You simply would never have woken. I'd have been easy. But now, you will live to see sorrow and pain and then die another day. Why would you thank me for this gift?"

The boys answer was passionate.

"Because life is beautiful. With all its sorrows and pains, it is still beautiful. Because there is also joy and happiness and long sunny days where there is food to eat and wine to drink and people to laugh with. I will not be cowed by the vision of death. All things end, that is the way of the world, but I won't let it stop me from living while I can."

So much energy, so much innocence was in that voice and in this face as Merlin had not seen in a long time. And he found that he admired it. And for once, the human being in front of him did not seem small but simply young. So incredibly young.

The boy stayed to live in his house for long after. Soon it had become a year, and even though for Merlin it seemed no more than seconds, for the boy it seemed like lifetimes and soon he wanted to leave to seek his fortune in the world.

When he was gone Merlin did, for the first time in ages, feel lonely. So he did what he had not done in a long time. He left his home and went to mingle with the people of this world. He followed the ways the boy took, always watching from afar, never showing himself. Sometimes, when there was danger coming up or trouble on the way, Merlin would help, little nudges of magic here and there. He watched as the boy grew up to be a man, as he built a house, became a gifted craftsman. He watched him fall in love and get his heart broken, watch him despair at night over the loss of his love, and then, after time, come over it. He saw him love again, saw him make friends and laugh.

There were cold days and winters were all hope of seeing the summer seemed lost, but the now hard and strong man never gave up and eventually, he always survived. He married, and even though two of his five children died before they had seen their second summer, it did nothing to dampen his emotions and if anything, he only loved his other children the fiercer. So he lived and fought and laughed and cried, and so high and changeable the emotions seemed to Merlin that he almost felt dizzy just watching. And then, when the man had reached his 50th year on earth, his horse slipped passing over the wet stones near the river and fell hard, burying the man under it. Panicked it ran off, leaving his masters broken body behind. It was then that Merlin finally stepped out of the shadows and knelt down next to the man, stroking the bloody hair out of his face. He drew the mans body up against his own, lifted his head against his chest. The man's eyes cracked open and despite the pain that was lined into his face, he smiled.

"Hello, old friend." he whispered. "An irony, it would almost seem, that it is here, at death's doorstep that we meet once again."

"I could heal you," Merlin offered, unsure of where the words came from. "I could give you once again the gift of life. Do you wish for me to do so?"

But the man shook his head. "I have lived a long and happy life, thanks to you old friend." He smiled. "Do not think I have not seen you in the shadows, have not guessed at what you did for me. And for that I thank you, but I am an old man now. We are not made to endure and if God should wish for me in his heavenly halls now, far be it from me to deny him."

"Are you not afraid?"

The man shock his head. "Death is the price we all pay for the gamble of life, and mine has been a good one. I will pay this price gladly."

A tremor ran through his body, and blood began to leak out of the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," he breathed heavily, "for your kindness." Then his eyes fell shut. It was only then that Merlin realized he was crying.

He stayed there for several long-streched minutes, not sure what to do with the emotions that welled up inside him. Eventually, he lifted the man in his arms, and gently lowered his body in the river, to be carried away by the stream into the open sea. It somehow seemed right so him.

Then, the first time in almost 40 years, he went home again, to his cottage and the solitude of the woods. And he sat down and he tried to remember all that he knew of humans for it seemed to him they were so much more than the screaming, noisy children he had taken them for for such a long time. And long he lingered in memories of the mans life, and eventually, the memories led to something else, something long buried. To another man, who had also been blond, and brave, and who had loved much and fought hard. And he could not remember his face and could not recall his voice, but he remembered laughter and joy and long hours spent together in the woods. He remembered golden dragons and red banners flatter in the wind and the clang of swords and the glittering of a crown. And with that, other memories came, of other knights, red cloaks flapping in the breeze, of shared laughter and shared adventures. Memories of a lifetime. And eventually, memories of a promise. A promise to remember. A promise to be kind. And a promise to never change.

Oh how disappointed they would be to see him now, these people who had cared for him so much, to see what he had become. Apathic, grim, emotionless. Leaving mankind to suffer and die, turning his back on those around him, ignoring their suffering. Looking down at them, believing himself to be above their likes. How wrong he had been. He thought of the man. He had been so much better than him.

The next day, he left his cottage and went to life in a village far away, where nobody yet new him. He told a story of dead parents and dead friends, and the people accepted his grim and sincere being as consequences of grieve. He tried to fit in, and he tried to live, earning coin by mixing herbs and roots for remedies and treating the ill. It was hard and soon he became overwhelmed by all the people around him, the etiquettes that were to be followed, the haste of life.

He left after ten years, not being able to bear the strain of human life and suffering any longer.

He retreated to the silence of the woods, and did not emerge until half a century later. This time, he went into one of the bigger cities, and instead of starting to work, he chose to study. He applied for Medicine and when the classes began, his mind was full of wonder. He drowned himself in books and papers, eager to learn what he could, to understand the working of the world. He kept away from other people, but eventually, he began to make something resembling to friends. People he talked to in class, people he did not mind being around.

After he graduated he became a Doctor again, feeling the deep-seated wish to help people, to repay them for the years he had done nothing. He never took lovers, and he never went out, but he found peace in it and he stayed there for a lifetime, until all those he had once known as young men had withered away. Then he too, disappeared, and returned to the woods. But this time, he did not stay, for he longed for the presence of other human beings and the distractions of a busy life. He chose to start again as a student, and he went to study, after much thought, the upcoming teachings of psychology. He found it interesting, the working of minds, and much that he had not understood in the behaviour of humans before he saw with clear eyes now. But still he felt drawn to the arts of healing and soon after working as a psychiatrist for no more than a year, he applied again for medicine and began his life as Doctor anew. He made friends that were more than acquaintances and he went out with them, exploring life. And when he had worked long enough to be considered old and grey, he took to traveling, and he was amazed at how much the world had to offer. And so it was, that even after this lifetime ended, he did not return to solitude but travelled the world, losing himself in its marvels and by that, finding himself once more bit by bit. He started to laugh again, to smile freely and to enjoy food and drink and good company. And after some time, he even started to love again, and he cursed the world and all the powers above for it because by default, he lost them and it hurt so much. But he swore to the memory of his youth that he would not break his promise again, so he stayed strong, and he continued on living. The only thing he swore to deny himself forever was to continue his legacy, to father children. Such a loss as this, watching them grow old and eventually die, he never wanted to face, he never could, for he was sure it would break him, and he feared what destruction he might bring upon himself, upon the world, should he ever lose himself so thoroughly again.

And then the wars came, the big, all destroying wars, and he forced himself to live through them. He would go into the field as a doctor, would safe whoever he could, one time on this side, then the other, and he learned to count the victories in the lifes saved rather than the ones lost. And they cheered at him for the lifes he saved and then frowned at him for the lifes he spared because he would not kill, not even the enemy, and he would not put one mans life above another, no matter who he was.

And so it was that he lived through the wars being praised and cursed alike, but he did not care for it because his heart was silent and his conscious clean. And after the wars, he went to a place far away and he found peace in the countryside undisturbed by corruption and destruction.

It was there that he started to write. At the beginning it were only phrases, hanging half finished in the air, single words that made no sense. It was so hard to express himself. But slowly, the words started to flow and soon they filled pages, entire books, the memories of what he had seen and what he had lived through. And eventually, he came to those, the very first ones, the ones that were like a long forgotten dream, even to him. Much of the names and places he had forgotten, so he took to reading the legends about himself, the time he lived in, hoping to find something familiar. And indeed, he did. Uther, the memory of fear and a cruel face became a name once more. Gawaine and the knights of the round table, Lancelot, Elyan, Percival. One he lacked, one name to match with curly hair and unwavering loyalty and life-long service, but it would not come to him again and no legend told of him. And then there were other names, names that did not match what was written about them, but he recognized them none the less. Freya. His first love. The girls that had meant so much to him. He did not write much about her, was unable to put in words the memories of her last breaths, of her suffering. So he only wrote what he felt, how much he loved here then, loved here still, and that there would never be someone else like her. And then he let it rest.

Some people remained nameless, and he had to accept that never again would he remember the name of his mother or father, or the man that had raised him as his own.

But there were names he never quite managed to forget. Guinevere, for one, so underestimated by the legend of today. So much more than they said of here, wise and kind and just and compassionate. And never did he forget the decades he spent at her side at the many dangers they faced together for the good of the kingdom. And never did he forget the promise she bad of him at her dying breath and the softness and kindness she had kept through all these years of fighting. She was, and always would be, Queen among women and the best person he ever knew, the best friend he ever had.

And then Arthur. Of course, brave, loyal, noble, kind, just, kingly Arthur. It was hard to write his name down. So hard. And the memories, even though being blured by the centuries, still hurt like a fresh wound. But still he wrote. About the man who had lead a kingdom back into light, who had been fair and just and who had loved so much and trusted so willingly. Who had been his best friend, his brother, his soulmate, his life.

And with him, Morganas story came up, and Mordreds and he found he had no energy anymore to hate them, so he pitied them instead.

And after years spent remembering the past, writing it down, he finally laid down the pen, having told everything worth telling. And in this act, he realized, he had found a small bit of piece, a small bit of closure. He would not forget who he was again, would not allow himself to forget the memories of his old wounds and old joys. But neither would he linger in them, nor life in their shadow. He would guard them with respect, and with care, but no longer could he let them dictate what his life was to be.

He would always be a Doctor. And he would never kill again. But not for repentance, not for making up past deeds like it had been up until now. He would simply be what he always had been: A friend of to those in need, a giver of hope to the hopeless, a guiding hand for those who had lost their way. An honest man with a kind heart.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Soo, this general idea of exploring immortality has been jumping around in my head for quite some time. I can't help but think that if Merlin survived 'til today, there would be more going on that just pining for Arthur. Not because I don't like the idea of Merlin pining for Arthur, but more because I think being immortal has got to be the most terrible thing ever and cannot but drive one insane. So yeah, here it is, my take on it. And honestly, I wrote this stuff without thinking about it at all, I just wrote and sort of let it develop while I wrote. Honestly, when I started, I had no idea what would come out. And I had no idea how to finish it, so I just sort of cut it off at one point. Honestly, I still think the ending is crap.

Please leave a review…? Pretty please?


	2. Days of youth

So, I sort of wrote a Prequel to: A promise. It can be read as a stand-alone, but makes more sense if one reads A Promise first. Anyway, it is a part of the memories Merlin writes down after the wars, concerning the people he lived with in Camelot, and their fates.

So, as usual: SPOILER WARNING FOR MERLIN UP TO AND WITH SEASON 5

And, of course: English still isn't my first language, so feel free to point mistakes out to me. I'm always eager to learn.

More notes at the end. Have fun!

….

These are the memories of Merlin Emrys, concerning his youth, his first years in Camelot, and the people he knew during the Golden Age:

I grew up poor. In a village far away, where the grass was green, the forests vast, and the winters cold. My mother was a gentle soul, and my father long gone. Our lifes were hard, and food and warmth were scare. I did not know back then, the power within me, how waste it was, how strong. For me, it was, and is, part of who I am, as natural as breathing, as easy as thinking. Had I not grown to see how seldom such skills were, I would have thought it normal. But early on I learned that I was not, and there was a fear in me, always, a deep, ongoing fear, born out of the knowledge that I was different. That a man far away, who didn't know me, had never seen me, would kill me for the gift I had been born with. But back then, the shadow of a man, even one so cruel as him, seemed hardly more frightening than the cold grip of starvation, or the smell of sickness.  
I do not know much anymore of this time long since passed. I think I may have had a friend. A feeling of hope in the long darkness of the days, a warmth of friendship and understanding in the loneliness dances in the back of my mind. But maybe I am just imagining it, the ghost of an old wish. I cannot know.

I do remember leaving, remember the fear and excitement, and the moment I first laid eyes on Camelot. How vast it was, how splendid, in these golden days.  
I went to live with a very old, very wise man, who in time would become a father to me, and I a son to him. He would, from this day forth, be my mentor, and guide me in the days of youth and learning. And whose death would once, in a future not as far away as I had wished, or yet, even imagined, cause me a lot of pain.  
My father too will die, some years later. I will meet him once, and when he dies, someone will tell me not to weep for him. It is strange, that I should remember that, and not my father's name, nor face, nor how he came about his death. I think it might have been Arthur, who said that to me. Why else would it have hurt so much?  
My mother too, dies, of course, but many years later, and she is old and sick and her hands are weak. She has not seen me for a long time, and when I come to her young as I have ever been, having heard of her hovering end, she thinks me a ghost. "It is me!" I tell her, "I'm here!", but she just smiles at me, wistfully, and tears fill her eyes. She dies soon after, happy, but unaware of my presence, unaware of my hand holding hers. I remember because the shame is so great afterwards, the awareness that I had not been there for here in the last years of her life. But life had been hard back then, and Gwen alone, and Camelot close to doom, and there was much to do. But above all, I could not stand the pain of seeing here age, whilst I was doomed to be forever young.

The pain of her death took me one step further away from the people around me, taught me to not get close, to not expose myself to this agony. Today, I know that I should have cherished each moment I could have had with her, that the pain of getting close, of losing, belongs to human life. But I was younger back then, and bitter and weary of the world.

But at the beginning of it all, I did not yet think about pain and things ending, for I was young, and the world was fair. There was a girl with a kind smile and kind hands, who smiled at me, and made me laugh. Her name was Gwen. She was a lowborn, just as I, but same as me, she was destined to be great. But her power did not come from magic, or any such force. Her power was in her kindness, and passion, and wisdom, and her good heart. She would come to love Arthur for the love he bore his people, and he would come to love her because of the love she bore him, Arthur, the man, and not Prince Arthur, the future King. It is for the same reason he will come to regard me as his friend. Few people saw him then for who he was, saw the man behind the title and the expectations. Today, our names are legends, and our deeds woven into songs and stories. But we were not as grand as the stories say. We were human, and we lived and fought and laughed and cried, just as everybody else.

There was another woman in that time too, dangerous in her beauty, fierce, and yet compassionate and strong. Morgana. The warden of the king she was, when I first met her, and being empathetic and kind, she despised the kings cruelty and his hatred. But he loved her, and she knew, so she dared to love him back. She will later hate him because she knows despite this bond, he would despise her, if he knew the truth about her magic, and she will hate him, because he lied to her about her heritage, and she will hate him, because he makes her feel so alone, and so afraid. Her story, so often told in hate, is one of great tragedy. A tragedy in which I, to my regret, shall play a part.

Then there was, of course Arthur. So young, so unburdened, when we first met. Still not quite grown up, but he will learn in time, and even then, in the days of our beginning there was greatness in him, for he loved his people, down to the last child, and he strived to be righteous and just. There was arrogance too in him, I think, and we fought often in the early days. But much happened, and he came to respect me for my honesty and my freely given friendship, and I him for the good in his heart and the bright future I knew he would bring. We were destined to bring great things together, but destiny is far away to those who live. We were not bonded by destiny, but by friendship and love.

Life was fast back then, and full of colour. The world was new, and hope was bright.  
But where there is light, there must be shadow, and a lot of the darkness of these days came down to one man. Uther. Oh the coldness in this face, the cruelty in these eyes. A bringer of death he was to those like me, a figure of nightmares. Still I remember the pyres, the smell of burning flesh, the screams, and how he stood there and watched. Many things I have seen, but few so cruel, so barbaric, as the deeds of this man.  
And yet I know, even knew back then, that Uther Pendragon was not, in fact, an evil man, nor had he ever been. He was a man made cruel by pain, but he loved his son, and Arthur loved his father. And even though I tried to hate him, wanted to hate him with all I had, I never could. For I too, loved Arthur, and I too was in pain. And soon I too would do evil things in order to do good. I too would kill to protect, would harm to shield the ones I loved. For what was an enemy soldier to me when I saw Gwen smile? What was a nameless bandit when I heard Arthur laugh?

It was I, in the end, who would bring Uthers death, though I know I didn't want to. I cannot fathom today how it happened, or what it was that I did, but I remember well the dread at the sight of his dead corpse, and my sorrow in the face of Arthurs pain.  
It should have felt good. It should have been a relieve, seeing the man who would see me dead, pass away. But it did not, and it was then that I learned that revenge gives no satisfaction, and seeing an enemy dead no relieve.

We were all so young then, and in the blind optimism of youth, thought ourselves immortal. For even though we all had seen death, felt defeat, fear and bitterness had not yet touched our hearts, and life seemed good.

Arthur lost this innocence after Morganas betrayal. Gwen lost hers after Arthurs death. I lost mine when Freya died. Freya… It still pains me to think of her, and I would give all the treasures of the world, if I could only remember her face, the sound of her voice, or the feeling of her touch. I loved her then, when we first met. I held her when as she gave her last breath, and loved her still. She was much too young… and I am old now, and weary and my memories fade. But if I know anything, I know this: I shall love her even when the world sinks into flames, and all the ages of this earth have passed away, and never will there be someone else like her.

A lot happened back then, and there were many dangers and many cold days. Battles were fought, sometimes in the open, but more often in the shadows, and many lies were told. But there were many happy days as well, days were the sun was shining, songs were sung and life was good. Much of what we did has passed away out of my memory, and what remains is a distant dream of what was. Nimueh was there, I think, at the beginning, and it seems to me that I might have pitied her. But there was hate as well, and tears and pain. I think I killed her in the end. But I killed many, and regretted much, and their faces were something I worked hard to purge from my memory. So I cannot be sure.

I know that Gwen was not yet Queen, know because Uther would never have allowed it, but she grew to love Arthur in secret, and he loved her back.  
I know that Mordred must have been there too, for I am sure I have known him before he became a knight. But the details of our first encounter have slipped my mind. Difficult it must have been, and dangerous. And disastrous in the end, because it led to mistrust and anger between us.

It was after some years, when Uther still was king, and Arthur a prince, that the story of Morganas betrayal began.  
I had an open heart back then, and trusted easily. But yet, sometimes, it was not enough. And just then, when a scared, young woman, lonely and confused, needed my trust more than anything else, I let fear overcome me and turned from her, and, in the end, drove her away. She harnessed her powers for the dark and evil, and wished for nothing more than the throne of Camelot, the blood of those who had betrayed her. Into darkness and madness she went, and much pain she caused me before the end of days. I used to hate her. Even more so, because I loved her once, as a friend, and grieved for her as such, when she turned on us. I used to hate here because of all the pain she caused me, caused Arthur, and the lifes that she took. And I hated her because if not for her, Arthur would have lived. If not for her, Gawaine would have lived.

But hate leads nowhere, and Morgana, even though she chose her path herself, was not a monster, never a monster. She was a result. A result of all the mistakes we made in our fear or pride. A result of pain and the hatred of men. A result of loneliness. And it pains me more than I can tell, to see the people of this world repeat the same mistakes we made over and over again. I see them, how they create their own worst enemies, out of their hatred and fear and cruelty, and I weep for the scared, angry souls lost to hatred.

Her betrayal and open declaration as an enemy of Camelot marked a turning point in our lifes. For afterwards, Uther was unfit to rule, and Arthur slowly assumed the role he is known for in history. And it was then also, that the knights of the round table were created.

Lancelot, I had known before. A most noble man he was, and just and kind, and endlessly loyal. He wished to serve, and protect, more than anything else. He was the first, after my mother and my mentor, to learn of my magic, and never did he betray my secret. He loved Gwen, but he loved Arthur as well, and for the sake of this love it was, that he forsook his own feelings, allowing them to be happy. He was the best, and most selfless man I ever knew.  
And he came when I called to him in need, and in need it was that he went, for he sacrificed himself so others could live.

Then there was Gawaine, of course, who had been banned for reasons I can't remember. Who laughed often and spoke much, and who drank and gambled and did not have a care in the world, or so it seemed. And yet he was always there when someone was in need, was always there when injustice ruled or children cried. He died shortly before Arthur, and was not there when I needed him most in my grief. I remember being angry, because of that. How strange a feeling, to be angry at a dead man. But I was angry because I needed him, and I was angry because his death had been in vain, and I was angry because I missed him so much, and I could not bear to grieve for him as well, when all my being was filled with sorrow and pain over Arthurs death.

Then there was Elyan, brother to Gwen, who fought for Arthur and fought for Gwen, and who died protecting what he loved most.

There was one other member of the table, whose name I cannot recall, and no legend tells of him. So I will. He was a knight since Uther's time, but loyal to Arthur to a fault, and his life was dedicated to protecting the innocent, and upholding the code of the knights. Fight for the weak. Fight for the kingdom. Always be just and kind. His death years later was mundane and quick, but peaceful. He had seen too much to fear death.

And then there was Percival, often silent and pensive, but attentive and smart. Big and muscular he was, but there was such a softness in him, and he could not bear to hear children cry. It was this vulnerability, his capacity to love, that drove him to death in the end. A broken heart is a cruel thing and he deserved so much better.

Those are the knights of the round table as he was when Arthur created him, the heart of the kingdom, and my family in everything but blood. The best men I ever knew they were, and even though the time we shared was short, it was filled with wonders and glory.

And so it was that the golden time of Camelot came to pass, for even though Uther was dead, Arthur became the great king destiny had chosen him to be. The love between Arthur and Gwen was open to see for the world, and the people came to respect a serving girl as their future Queen. Morgana declared herself an enemy of Camelot, and we will grow under the challenges her wrath faces us with. And the knights of the round table were created, and the halls of Camelot were filled with our laughter and our voices.

And of more I will not tell now, for the story of our doom and how it came to pass is for another day, and another chapter. There I will tell of the years that came, of Arthur, and the king he grew to be, and the hope and light he brought back into the kingdom. I will tell of Gwen, and how she learned to rule. And there I will tell of Mordred, his dedication and loyalty, and the love that blinded him. But for now, rest assured in the knowledge that even though we suffered death and defeat in the end, our lifes were happy once, and not a second of it I would tread, even if I had to bear all the pains of the world.

….

Sooo, apparently, I'm not able to write anything that's not super angsty… sorry for that. Anyway, I don't really know if this stuff is worth anything. Contrary to before, I have had a lot of trouble writing this one down. I started out completely different, and the only bit that survived of that are some phrases and that I absolutely wanted some post-Freya-angst in it.

It was quite hard as well to define how much Merlin remembers and what he forgot. The way I have written it in A Promise, and the way I imagine how living a thousand years affects your memory, it should not have been much at all, but I had to have something to work with… so I decided he would mostly remember emotional context and few facts or events…

And then I suddenly realized that I'm basically recounting the series without much original stuff, so it must be dead boring to read. But then I was too far gone so now I'm posting it anyway.

And well, as usual, I had a lot of trouble ending this story, so, like always, I just cut it off somewhere… I'm crap at endings.

Review? Please? Honestly, leave me a review and you'll make my day!


End file.
